


i'll walk with you into the wind

by TheAndromedaRecord



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Close to Hadestown format ya feel, Hades Peter, Hadestown AU, Jon as Orpheus, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Martin as Eurydice, Narrator Gertrude, Pining, Unhealthy Relationships, and formatted like gertrude is telling you a story, because i know we all want that let's be real, haven't decided how it's gonna end but i will raise hell to make it a happy ending, i'm gonna make myself cry with this fic, if i can make it thematically consistent, jon "rip to orpheus but i'm different" sims, persephone elias, yes this fic is narrated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: There existed a place called Lukastown, a boat of industry and death ruled by a god called Peter Lukas. There existed a young man named Martin, who was driven to the fog by hunger and loneliness. There existed a poor man, Jon, and the song he summoned to bring his lover out of hell.A Hadestown AU
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	i'll walk with you into the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this project has been rattling around in my head for ages. I was sitting on a draft and decided, fuck it, imma publish. Enjoy! I really think this is gonna be super good

All right?

All right. 

You can’t really answer, of course. I simply assume that it is “all right” if you’ve read to this point. A shame that this whole thing must be written down, but I am no muse of song. This thing ought to be a song, really. I am sure it will turn into one by the time I am finished. 

Statement begins, I suppose.

There existed a place called Lukastown. The where and when are irrelevant. What you must know is that Lukastown was not a town. Lukastown was a boat on an endless sea of the dead, with a deck that stretched miles and a thousand workers with backs bent against the mist. The king of Lukastown, named Peter, was an almighty ruler who held the fog and the pistons with a fist of iron. It was a hub of industry in a world windy and ruined, and it trailed the misty sea, a reedy whistle echoing the toll of the dead over the water.

On the shore of the endless ocean that Lukastown trawled was a place known simply as a harbor: it was a home for the transient and the poor waiting for a ticket to Lukastown, where they could find work. The harbor was a squalid place, and of as little importance as the people who lived there. These people lived and worked on the shore of death, and as such, keeping a spark of life was an uphill battle. No one bothered to give this place a name, and those who didn’t live there simply referred to it as the road to hell, as it was the last stop before the pier at which Lukastown docked. Times were hard on the road to hell, almost as hard as they were in hell itself, on that lonely boat. 

I am going to tell you a story of gods and men. I mean men, of course, in the mythical sese. As in, not gods.

First, the Fates: the architects of all misery and misfortune. Destiny was not something that could be defied on the road to hell, and the Fates reigned absolute. They had names: Annabelle to control, Nikola to trick, Agnes to destroy and doubt. They were not evil—evil is such a very human concept, don’t you think? They were fate. It just so happens that fate is often what you might call cruel. The Fates were the ordainers of all that is just, not necessarily all that is good. They charted the course of destiny and proscribed each man his path.

For six months of every year, the road to hell was dark and stormy. But it lit up once the ship came, bearing Elias, god of light and sight, carrying a briefcase of art and sunlight. And for the next six months, there was no need for matches and lanterns. The air was full of story and song—no one sang in the winter except for the brave and stupid. I have not yet found out if Elias is a joyous benefactor or a selfish voyeur, and I suspect I never will.

And that is all the gods—oh, except one. I suppose you’re wondering who’s telling you this story.

My name is Gertrude. I am a goddess of letters and libraries, of books and stories. These stories fall naturally under my dominion, and it is my responsibility to tell them as many times as they must be told, no matter how tragically they may end. 

Not everyone is a god, of course. Many people lived on this road, all of them with their own stories, which I have taken the liberty of including here. 

No goddess is without her acolytes, and I have many. Gerry, a man with engraved eyes. Micheal, of twisting hands and unnerving dance. Eric the blind. Dekker, my closest advisor. Timothy the angry, whose grief drove him to the fog. Sasha, whose precise hands and careful letters made her an ideal candidate for Lukas’s bookkeeping. Melanie the angry. Daisy the hunter, who chased down the withered and terrified animals around the harbor, bringing them home for Basira, who scrabbled desperately to keep the town in some sort of order. And many more, so many more, folk of the lightning and the meat and the blood and the mask. These people have stories of their own, but because I’m not telling them, I will use my acolytes as I see fit, to fill whatever roles that need filling. 

This story concerns two men in particular.

The first: Jonathan. Jonathan was a son of a muse, and he inherited all the creativity of his mother, with a spark of godly energy his small frame could barely contain. He worked on a song with the energy of a man possessed. The music came to him in fits and starts, and he could no more deny it than pluck out his eyes. 

And the second: Martin. Martin was a hungry wanderer, cast adrift from town to town since the death of his mother. All he was looking for was something to eat. I was the one to invite him in from the cold, into the tiny bar in the railroad station that was the only place with a little light on the road during the winter. 

This is the story of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood.

It’s an old statement. It’s a sad one, too. But it is my job to make these statements as many times as needed. We are the ones who tell old, dusty stories in the hopes that, with the hope these glimmers of the past give us, we can turn the world that is into the world that could be.


End file.
